


Cold Night on a Graveyard Shift

by JeanGraham



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 01:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: Nick gets a partner he didn't want -- Don Schanke.





	Cold Night on a Graveyard Shift

**See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>**

**Cold Night on a Graveyard Shift**

* * *

  
by Jean Graham

Nick Knight did not want a partner.

He'd never wanted one, had never worked with one, but after  
the homeless murders, Captain Stonetree had insisted on permanently  
reassigning Don Schanke to the night shift and suddenly, his  
objections notwithstanding, Nick Knight had a partner.

One who was currently attempting to talk his ear off as the  
Caddy made its way to the coroner's building.

"...can get better donuts at Bigelow's, but Haroldsens' are  
bigger and, I dunno, they got more fat in 'em or something I guess,  
they just _taste_ better, and do you mind rolling up the window?  
It's freezing in here. Hello. Knight?"

"Hm? Oh, sure." Annoyed, Nick complied, but the moment he  
did, the aromas of Schanke's glazed donut and steaming coffee  
assailed his nostrils and he had to mentally command his rebelling  
stomach to ignore it and be thankful his new partner hadn't ordered  
souvlaki for 'breakfast' instead.

"...just can't figure Stonetree sometimes, y'know?" Schanke  
mumbled between donut bites. Nick's stomach rumbled in protest.  
"Twelve years on the day shift. Twelve years! And now... What'd  
I do to deserve this?"

"Exactly what I've been wondering," Nick muttered, but his  
partner was yawning -- loudly -- and hadn't heard him.

"Well, long as we're stuck with each other a while, might as  
well make the best of it, huh? You know something? You never told  
me, or maybe I never asked. Where're you from?"

The lie came easily now. "Chicago."

"Oh yeah? I got an aunt, two or three cousins in Chicago.  
Great place. You got family?"

Nick's blue eyes darkened for a moment "No. No family."  
Thankful to at last pull the Caddy up in front of the coroner's  
building, he parked and escaped the car, wishing he could find some  
pretext to leave Schanke behind. But his new partner trailed him  
into the building, munching and slurping all the way.

"I've got very good instincts," he bragged, wiping sugary  
fingers on his suit as they headed down the corridor to Natalie's  
lab. "And I've been around the block a few times. So like I said  
before, stick around and you might learn a few things. I've got a  
few years experience up on you--"

Nick restrained the urge to laugh at that, settled for a  
long-suffering smile aimed at Natalie as they came through her door.

Her eyes smiled back over a green surgical mask, and Schanke cut  
his sentence off with a gulp, the devoured donut threatening an  
imminent return when he caught sight of the gory mess on her  
operating table. For entirely different reasons, Nick hesitated as  
well. The strong scent of blood mingled with formaldehyde  
permeated the lab.

"I uh, just remembered," Schanke stammered. "Gotta check with  
Wilson in forensics on the Calloway case. Be right back." And  
with near-vampiric speed, he vanished back out the door, leaving it  
swinging in his wake.

Natalie's eyes kept their smile as she put aside her scalpel,  
turning to the sink to scrub down, strip off the mask and gloves  
and scrub down again. Nick gave the operating table a wide berth  
on his way to her side.

"Daegel report's on my desk over there," she said, laughter  
still tingeing her voice. When he didn't move at once to retrieve  
it, she glanced toward the door and grinned, drying her hands on a  
small blue towel. "Having a little trouble with the new partner,  
are we?"

"Nat... I can't do this!" The desperation of having been  
cooped up with Schanke for the past few hours came out full force.  
"He's driving me crazy!"

Her eyes widened in mock innocence. "What, *Schanke?*  
Nahhh..."

"I'm serious," he snapped, a little more vehemently than he'd  
intended. "If Stonetree doesn't change his mind on this, I may  
have to resign. It's either that or use slightly more...  
persuasive methods to convince him."

Instantly, disapproval shadowed Natalie's eyes. "Don't you  
*dare,"* she admonished. "You want to be human, you'd better learn  
to live by _our_ rules for a change."

"But Schanke--"

"Is your partner. Captain's orders, like it or not. So now  
I guess you just have to learn to deal with it."

  
"That's the problem..." He stalked to the desk, perched  
miserably on its edge, picked up the report. "I _can't_ deal with  
it. I've always worked alone, always. How can I get anything done  
if I'm saddled with him all the time?"

She hung up the towel, leaned back against the sink and  
crossed her arms. "Well, that's the way partnerships work. You  
watch his back, and he watches yours. You look out for each  
other."

"Nat, I don't _need_ looking after."

She wasn't convinced. "Yeah? Well, maybe you need someone to  
look out _for_ then." At his grimace, she added, "I mean that.  
Come on, Nick. You want mortal? Well, Schanke's about as mortal  
as they come! And you'd better start getting used to it. It's  
what _our_ world is all about."

Frowning, he hopped off the desk, tucking the report under one  
arm. He supposed he should have known better than to expect any  
sympathy from this quarter. "All right," he promised half-  
heartedly. "I'll try. But no guarantees." He kissed her once,  
chastely, on the forehead, and headed for the door.

"Life -- mortal life, anyway -- doesn't come with guarantees,  
Nick," she said.

"Yeah." He waved the folder in parting, and went in search of  
his mortal, un-guaranteed partner.

Back in the car, Schanke slurped at a can of Coke and resumed  
his non-stop, meaningless chatter. "Man-oh-man, can you believe a  
buck for a Coke? In-cred-i-ble! I remember when it was twenty  
cents, can you remember when it was twenty cents? No, probably  
not, you're not that old. Well, trust me, there was a time..."

Nick glowered at him while the litany continued, though  
Schanke never noticed. There was just no getting around it.  
Schanke would either have to go, or Nick would have to kill him.  
He frowned again. Even in jest, the thought didn't really amuse:  
it was, after all, a genuine danger. He, or something he might do,  
could all too easily get Schanke killed. It was a risk he didn't  
want to take; the reason he'd always resisted partner assignments  
in the past.

"...don't believe this." Inexplicably, Schanke was squirming  
in the passenger seat, searching his suit, slapping at the pockets.

The Coke tipped and dribbled brown liquid down his tie. "I never  
do that!"

"What?"

"Guess I must've left my shield at home. Damn. Hey, we could  
just swing by and pick it up. It's not too far out of the way."  
He rattled off an address and Nick, tight-lipped, complacently  
turned the Caddy down the next street going that direction.

"You really got no family?" Schanke asked again. "No parents,  
uncles, cousins, ex-wives... Nobody?"

"No." Nick sighed, and Schanke mistook his frustration for  
sorrow.

"Geez, I'm sorry. That's really too bad. I mean, don't get  
me wrong, it's not that relatives can't be a royal pain in the butt  
sometimes, but... well, it must get awful *lonely* in that barn of  
an apartment you live in. No wife, no kids..."

Nick looked away, increasingly uncomfortable with this line of  
inquisition. "I do okay," he said curtly, but Schanke never  
noticed the attempted dismissal. He launched instead into a  
lecture on the joys of parenthood, and Nick did his best to tune it  
out until they arrived at the Schanke residence, an aging-but-  
comfortable-looking two story home with a railed porch and gabled  
windows. Nick stared at it, trying to reconcile the simple charm  
of the house with Schanke's brash, abrasive personality and  
failing. His partner was already out of the car, blowing on his  
hands and dancing from foot to foot.

"Think I'll pick up a coat and gloves while I'm at it -- it's  
really getting cold out here. Aren't you cold? And don't say  
it's just my advanced age, 'cause I might have to shoot you."  
Schanke held open the passenger door, ducking to stick his head  
back inside. "You coming?"

"I don't think--"

"Oh, come on, Knight, for once in your life pretend you're a  
human being and..." He faltered, if only for a moment, at Nick's  
startled look. "...and come in out of the cold, would ya? You can  
at least meet the wife and kid."

Trapped, Nick did his best to smile. "Yeah. Sure. Okay."  
Like a man on his way to the gallows, he crawled out of the Caddy  
and followed Schanke up the walk.

{++}

  
Man, was this Knight guy a piece of work or what? Lived on  
some weird liquid diet, allergic to sunlight, didn't talk much, and  
when he did, grumpy as a bear on steroids. Don Schanke slipped a  
key into the front door and wondered if it was going to take an act  
of Parliament to get his new partner to lighten up a little.

"Myra? Honey, you down here?" They stepped into the darkened  
entry hall and he closed the door behind Knight, who was glancing  
nervously around as though something might jump out and bite him at  
any moment.

  
"Don?" The love of his life appeared at the top of the  
stairs, her crown of dark hair back-lit by an open bedroom door.  
Schanke grinned up at her, thinking how great she looked. So maybe  
he'd gained a few pounds and lost a little hair over the last  
fifteen years. Myra was still as gorgeous as the day he'd married  
her.

"Honey, come on down a minute. Somebody here you've gotta  
meet." He flipped on the hall light as she came down the stairs,  
noticing that Knight squinted in the sudden glare. "Myra Schanke,  
Nick Knight, homicide detective extraordinaire and Donnie-Boy's new  
partner on the graveyard shift." He grabbed both their hands and  
pressed them together, delighted when Myra turned on her hundred-  
watt smile and hardily shook Knight's hand.

"I've heard so much about you," she said.

With a tight smile, Knight shook back and then shyly reclaimed  
his hand. "Likewise."

"Just stopped by to pick up my coat and gloves and uh...  
something I forgot," Schanke told her. "Jenny already in bed?"

"Not yet. She's in the den."

"Oh, great. You can introduce Knight while I go on my little  
reconnaissance mission. Be right back."

He saw a distinct note of pleading in Knight's eyes when Myra  
recaptured his partner's hand and led him off through the parlor.

When Schanke returned with his acquisitions and made his own  
way to the den, it was to find Knight seated next to Myra, but on  
the very edge of the couch, looking ready to bolt at any moment.  
The TV was on with the sound muted, airing a _Star Trek_ rerun.  
Knight leaped to his feet the moment Schanke walked in, but  
anything he'd planned to say was pre-empted by a small brunette  
hurricane that came hurtling at Schanke from the floor.

"Daddy!"

The coat falling forgotten to the carpet, he caught her in  
both arms and whirled her in a complete circle, planting a big kiss  
on her forehead. "Hiya, kid. Hey, you meet my partner here?"

"Uh-huh. His name's funny!"

"Oh yeah?" Schanke cast Knight a questioning glance, but got  
only a shrug in answer.

"Yeah," Jenny giggled. "Nick Knight, just like Nick-at-  
Night!"

While his partner continued to look thoroughly bewildered,  
Schanke tweaked his daughter on the chin. "That's what I get for  
buying a satellite dish. And anyway, when did *you* ever stay up  
that late?"

"Didn't. They have commercials." In true kid-fashion, Jenny  
abruptly changed subjects. "Can we go to the zoo on Saturday?"

Schanke executed a formal bow. "Your Highness' wish is my  
command," he intoned, then hugged her again. A minute later, his  
offspring was happily sprawled back on the floor in front of the TV  
set, where Captain Kirk engaged in a muted battle of wits with an  
equally soundless Klingon.

"What... What are all those fuzzy things?" Knight wondered  
out loud, indicating the TV screen.

With a snort, Schanke bent to retrieve his fallen coat,  
checking to be sure his badge and gloves were still in the pocket.  
"Good grief, Knight. Where have you *been* for the last 30 years,  
in a cave someplace?" He turned for the door. "Well, time to  
venture back out onto the cold mean streets of Toronto. Later,  
Jenny!"

His daughter looked over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers  
in farewell. The TV sound came back up then, filling the den with  
the clamorous sounds of a futuristic barroom brawl. Schanke made  
a hasty exit, Knight behind him, and Myra brought up the rear,  
going with them to the front door and out onto the porch. Knight  
had a peculiar look on his face, moreso when Schanke turned to kiss  
the wife good-bye and said, "See you later, honey. Better get back  
inside now before you get frostbite."

He shrugged into the coat, turned around to find his partner  
staring oddly at the door Myra had just closed. Only instead of  
wearing that far-off spacey expression he got sometimes, Knight  
looked for all the world like one of those homeless waifs in a  
Dickens Christmas play, gazing hungrily through the window at the  
family sitting down to turkey dinner.

"What's with you?"

Knight glanced at him sharply, blinking. "Nothing. Let's  
go." He spun and headed swiftly for the car.

For a minute there... Well, *just* for a minute, Schanke could  
have sworn his partner had had tears in his eyes.

  
=++=

  
The police radio had begun calling for 81 Kilo before Nick  
reached the Caddy. He pulled open the door, slipped inside, picked  
up the microphone. "This is 81 Kilo responding, over."

"Possible homicide reported, 3085 Sherman Drive. Do you copy?  
Over."

"We're on it." He replaced the handset without bothering to  
say 'over and out.'" Dispatch would complain about that later. He  
waited for Schanke to close the passenger door, then sped away from  
the curb.

When they arrived, three squad cars, the coroner's van and  
several TV news trucks were already clogging the street outside the  
rather run-down tract house on Sherman. They threaded their way  
through the crowd of gawking neighbors and news reporters, flashed  
badges at the uniforms guarding the door, stepped inside...

_Blood._

Nick barely avoided wheeling back around and bolting. The  
blood odor was overwhelming; stronger than any he'd encountered  
since... No. He wouldn't think about that. He concentrated  
instead on sticking next to Schanke until they'd made it all the  
way into the living room, to the circle of uniforms and lab coats  
surrounding the thing on the floor. The thing that had been alive  
and human -- once. Male, by the look of it. Not much else you  
_could_ tell, though. One shot to the chest, one to the groin, and  
a third... It no longer had a face.

Dimly, he became aware of Schanke crossing himself and  
murmuring, "Jesus-Mary-Jehosaphat." Nick closed his eyes against  
the blood scent, fought back an obscenity of hunger that had no  
place here, looked up again when he heard Nat's voice approaching  
them.

"Not pretty," she said with feeling. "Twelve-gauge shotgun,  
point blank range." Behind her, the forensics photographer leaned  
in to begin taking flash photos of the corpse. "Victim's name is  
Walt Boyer, 46, married, two sons, and it's his house."

Schanke gave her a grim little smile. "Not anymore. We know  
who did it?"

Nat's expression wavered, the professional veneer dissolving.  
"Yeah. And that's gonna get a whole lot uglier." She nodded  
across the room, where three uniforms stood over a teenage boy who  
sat, staring vacantly ahead, on the sofa.

"The kid??" Schanke coughed. "You're kidding, right? Tell  
me you're kidding."

  
"I wish I were." Nat's distressed eyes met Nick's. "He's  
thirteen years old, for God's sake. How do we--?"

Nick grasped her arms, the touch as much a steadying influence  
for himself as for her. "Any other family here?"

Nat shook her head. "The 13-year-old is Paul. The other son  
is Andrew, 15. He -- and the murder weapon -- are still among the  
missing. The wife is in New York. Apparently, they were  
separated. Turner's trying to track down a phone number on her  
now."

"We got an APB on the other kid?" Schanke asked.

"Ogilvey called it in."

Nick gave her hand a quick squeeze, a gesture not lost on his  
ever-inquisitive partner. "Thanks, Nat."

Someone called her away then, and Nick became aware of a long,  
low whistle coming from Schanke. "Geez, I do _not_ believe this.  
What on Earth incites a kid to kill his own father?"

Uncomfortably, Nick surveyed the room. There were definite  
signs of a struggle: overturned furniture, a broken lamp. "There's  
always a reason, Schanke," he said, and headed for the sofa.

Following procedure, he held out his badge where the occupant  
of the couch could see it, nodding to the uniformed officers at the  
same time. They stepped aside, though not very far. The boy on  
the couch hadn't moved.

"You're Paul?" Nick asked in a carefully moderated voice.  
Still nothing. Aware of Schanke lurking just behind him, Nick  
tucked his badge away and squatted down to eye-level, peering into  
a pale, sullen face. "You want to tell us what happened here  
tonight?"

"No."

Hazel eyes finally turned on him: eyes filled with anger and  
defiance and so much pain that Nick very nearly recoiled from them.

"Maybe you can tell us who pulled the trigger, then." That  
was Schanke.

Paul glanced up at him just once, then lowered his head, over-  
long blond hair falling into his eyes. "I did," he said, no  
emotion whatsoever in the words.

Not sure yet whether to take that as truth, Nick reached out  
and in what he'd intended as a comforting gesture, placed a hand  
over Paul's. The boy jumped as though Nick had struck him,  
snatching his hand back and edging away. Puzzled, Nick withdrew  
his own hand, then straightened to exchange a questioning glance  
with Schanke before he asked, "Where's your brother, Paul? Where's  
the gun?"

Two hours later at the precinct, he still had no answers to  
those questions. Head bowed, Paul Boyer sat like a statue at the  
interrogation table, as detached as though he were indeed made of  
stone. Nick, seated beside him, had long since wearied of asking  
the same questions without getting answers. And across the table,  
Schanke, late of the day shift, was literally nodding off.

Nick had had enough. With a side glance at his dozing  
partner, he grasped Paul's chin with one hand, and when the boy  
again tried to pull away, held firm. "It's all right," he  
reassured. "I want you to look at me..." The boy's heartbeat  
pounded in his ears, rapid with fright. Green eyes locked with  
his, and again, Nick found that he wanted to turn away. The look  
in those eyes was one he knew all too painfully well.

"Where's the gun, Paul?"

The voice that answered him was lifeless, devoid of feeling.  
"Andy," he said. "Andy took it."

"Where?"

The eyes blinked, began to refocus. Nick re-exerted the bond,  
letting go of the boy's chin as he did so. "You trust me," he  
half-whispered, and saw Paul's lips move to echo the words. "You  
want to talk to me."

When he released the mental hold, the boy shook his head and  
stared back at him, the eyes less defiant, more open now. "Talk to  
me, Paul. Tell me what happened."

As if on cue, Schanke looked up, suddenly attentive.

Paul started talking, though his voice broke on the first  
word. "We..." He drew in a timid breath, started over. "We  
couldn't let him do it again, that's all."

"Do what ag--" Schanke started to ask, but Nick quelled him  
with a pleading look and a raised hand.

"Andy knew where he hid the shotgun. We just had to wait till  
he came home drunk again, till he started in... He used to take  
most of it out on Mom. But when she left, he started on us. It  
was just the beatings at first. But then... then he..."

Nick captured the boy's hand, not letting go despite the  
flinch it evoked. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about that.  
Just help us find Andy. You know where he was going, don't you?"

Without warning, rage darkened the too-young face. Paul tore  
free of Nick's grasp and leaped from the chair, overturning it. "I  
don't have to talk to you!" He pounded a fist on the tiled wall,  
striking it again and again. "I don't!"

Nick came up behind him, standing as close as he dared. "We  
can help," he started to say, but Paul turned on him, fury and  
hatred far beyond his years burning in those eyes.

"Nobody helps!" He slapped away Nick's hand. "Not cops.  
They just take a report, and then they give you back... to him."

Unbidden, flashes of Lacroix began to assail Nick; memories of  
enraged blows, glowing red eyes, sharp fangs tearing flesh...  
Still worse had been the shame at his weakness, the helpless fear,  
and the despair of knowing -- to Lacroix's cruel delight -- that  
his enslavement was going to last an eternity.

"Cops don't care," Paul was sneering at him. "Nobody cares."

"You're wrong._ I_ care."

From over his shoulder, he heard Schanke say soothingly, "Take  
it easy, kid."

Nick caught and held the boy's eyes again, though he extended  
no other influence. He wanted to say that he knew all too horribly  
well what it was like to be controlled by a mentor, a master, a  
_father;_ controlled by someone who claimed to love you, yet took  
a sadistic pleasure in every unspeakable cruelty. He wanted to say  
that he also knew what it was to be driven beyond what you could  
bear, until you had to fight back, even if it meant...

He could see Lacroix writhing against the stake's killing  
blow, that look of utter, disbelieving _betrayal_ in the master  
vampire's glowing eyes as the flames rushed up to consume him. In  
another eight centuries, Nick would never forget that scream...

"We _can_ help," he heard Schanke's voice say gently. "Just  
tell us where your brother is. Where was he going to ditch the  
shotgun?"

Paul's eyes still held Nick's, all the anger and hatred still  
broiling in them. "You don't know what it's like, to have the  
bastard come home every night, stinking drunk, screaming at you.  
Next thing, he's knocked you across the room. Then he keeps  
hitting you, and hitting you--"

"Paul..."

"You don't know--"

"And maybe I do!" Nick was almost shouting, grasping the  
boy's shoulders and shaking him harder than he should have.  
Peripherally, he saw Schanke's mouth drop open in dismay. But he  
held tightly onto the boy's arms, trying to draw some of the hurt  
from those eyes. "I _do_ know."

Paul shook his head, disbelieving. "Not you..."

"Yes, me. I survived, Paul, a_nd so can you."_ He saw tears  
beginning to supplant the anger now. It meant he was getting  
through. "Schanke's right. We _can_ help. But you have to help  
us, too." He was having trouble keeping his own voice from  
breaking. "Tell us what happened, Paul. Tell us where Andy is."

Fighting to hold back the floodgates, the boy began trembling  
under Nick's hands. "The lakefront." It came out as a choked  
whisper. "He was going to the lakefront."

When the wracking sobs began, Nick pulled the boy into an  
embrace, hugging him tightly against one shoulder. "It's all  
right." He put one hand to the small blond head. "It's over now."

_He'll never hurt you again,_ he added mentally. _We've both _  
_made certain of that, you and I. And neither one of us is sorry_.

  
{++}

  
God, but this was unbelievable. Schanke watched Knight  
holding the sobbing teenager, and retreated in silence to the table  
as the whole, horrible story began pouring out. He'd never have  
figured Knight for a cop who'd be good with kids, let alone a kid  
like this one. And what he'd said...

When it had all come out, they'd kept on standing like that,  
Knight just letting the kid cry. Schanke had slipped out,  
unnoticed, to call in the lakefront info. and to notify Juvenile  
Division that they'd need to send an officer -- and a couple of  
counselors -- pronto.

Lord, he hated cases like this. In twelve years on the force,  
he couldn't remember one this bad. But the even uglier truth was,  
neither could Don Schanke find any pity for the late unlamented  
Walt Boyer. As far as he was concerned, anyone who could do that  
to his own kids...

Schanke thought automatically of Jenny, of exactly what he'd  
want to do to anyone who hurt her. And the depth of that potential  
violence unnerved him.

Shuddering, he snatched a report form off his desk and, with  
a barely-controlled vengeance, twisted it into the typewriter.

Juvenile Division sent over an officer and two counselors,  
precisely per his request. He showed them to interrogation and  
went back to his paperwork, letting Knight handle the changeover.  
But an hour after Juvenile had departed with their charge, his  
partner still hadn't reappeared.

Schanke checked the coffee niche first: it was where he always  
went after a particularly tough interview. But no, come to think  
of it, he'd never seen Knight drink the stuff. He tried  
interrogation next, and found his missing partner still standing  
against the same wall, hands splayed, forehead to the tiles. He'd  
seen Knight brood before, but this...

Schanke let the door click shut behind him, then stood there  
for several minutes feeling utterly useless.

"Knight?" The formal name sounded suddenly cold. "Nick? You  
okay?"

One of the hands flexed, clenched into a fist, lowered. "I'm  
fine."

Knight might be a good cop, but he was one hell of a lousy  
liar.

"You don't look fine."

  
Silence.

"Look, I know we don't know each other all that well, and if  
you want to tell me to get lost, go ahead. I just wanted to say  
that... well that if you want to talk, I'll be there for you, any  
time. You may not believe it, but I'm a very good listener."

Knight lifted his head, looked at him with eyes that he could  
have sworn had been gold for just a moment. Gold and full of a few  
centuries' worth of pain. God, he'd seen guys mortally wounded who  
didn't look that hurt.

"I mean it's not that I'm an expert or anything. My old man,  
he took a belt to us sometimes if we got really out of line,  
y'know? But never anything like..." No wonder he'd never wanted  
to talk about his family. Schanke cleared his throat. "I just  
want you to know I'm here if you need me. You want me to butt out,  
just say the word."

Knight closed his eyes again. "Do me a favor?" he asked, the  
voice still tight and strained.

"Sure. Anything."

"Book off for me?" Knight moved, probably for the first time  
in hours, and pulled his discarded coat off one of the chairs.  
"I've gotta go."

"No problem." Schanke barely got the words out before his  
partner had vanished out the door. It wasn't the response he'd  
hoped for, but then again, this _was_ Nick Knight he was talking  
about.

Shaking his head, Schanke took a deep breath, left the room  
and turned toward the time card corner to fulfill the promised  
favor.

{++}

The sun had been up for perhaps an hour when an insistent  
buzzing roused Nick from a fitful doze in his chair. He made his  
way across the darkened living room to the monitor over the door,  
found a yawning Schanke staring up into the camera.

"Hello? Is the knight in shining armor awake?"

Nick smiled in spite of himself. "He is now. What's up,  
Schanke?"

"Just some papers Cap'n Stonetree asked me to drop off. Okay,  
not asked. Ordered. Sorry to bug you, but he sort of insisted."

Nick hit the security door release. "Come on up." He  
remembered to turn on a few lights, and also disposed of a few  
empty bottles before Schanke came through the elevator door. He  
carried a manila folder and something else in a brown paper bag.  
He set the latter down on the coffee table, pulling out a bottle of  
not-inexpensive red wine which he handed to Nick.

"I'm... uh... usually more of a beer kinda guy myself, but  
somehow I didn't figure you for the type, so..."

Nick was at a loss. "Is there some occasion...?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of." His partner sank into a chair,  
absently fanning the folder. "Guess you could say we're  
celebrating either hello or good-bye."

No more enlightened than before, Nick retrieved two glasses  
from his cupboard, returned to place them on the table, and took a  
seat on the couch.

"Cap'n said to tell you you did a great job with the Boyer  
kid," Schanke told him. "I guess Juvenile Division was really  
impressed. Oh, and Saunders 'n' Hale over in the 25th picked up  
the brother an hour ago. He ditched the gun in the lake, but he  
showed 'em where, and forensics is on it this morning. So are the  
news crews, big time. It's gonna come down justifiable homicide,  
though, any way you turn it."

Schanke seemed to run out of words. Sighing, he leaned  
forward and proffered the folder. "Well, here."

Expecting a report on the Boyer case, Nick took and opened the  
folder, frowning when he began reading the contents. "Schank..."  
The second syllable of the name didn't quite make it out. "This is  
a reassignment request."

"Uh-huh. I know you put it in a few days ago, but Stonetree  
refused to sign it then, 'cause he wanted us to try at least one  
shift on a regular run together, to see how it went. He, uh, said  
to tell you, if you still want out, that he's signed it now. All  
you have to do is initial the fine print, cross the t's and dot the  
i's, and we're history."

Nick stared at him. "You _knew?"_

"Yeah. And hey, it's okay. I understand. Really." Schanke  
scooted forward on the chair, reached to uncork and pour the wine.  
"I'll drink to whatever decision you make. I mean that."

Nick snapped the folder shut. "I'm sorry, Schank..." For  
some reason, that second syllable just didn't want to come out.  
"It wasn't anything personal."

"Like I said, no problemo." Schanke lifted the glasses,  
handed one across. "So what'll it be? A toast to partners, or ex-  
partners?"

  
Nick knew it was a set-up, sending Schanke with the papers.  
It had Stonetree's indelicate touch stamped all over it. But then,  
truth be told, Nick had already made his decision, so the  
subterfuge was completely unnecessary. Over the course of many  
lives, he'd called a number of mortals 'friend.' But none of them  
had ever offered the brooding, temperamental Nick Knight the  
unconditional friendship that Don Schanke had extended to him this  
evening. It didn't even matter that he couldn't share the burden  
Schanke had offered to carry. The offer had been enough.

"Tell him I changed my mind." Nick handed the folder back.

Schanke looked genuinely surprised for a moment. Then he  
grinned and touched his glass to Nick's. "I guess it's to  
partners, then."

"To partners," Nick echoed, and sipped at the wine, hiding a  
smile when Schanke downed his in two swallows and gasped in  
appreciation.

"Wow. That is _good stuff."_ He stood, tucking the folder  
under one arm. "Well amigo, sorry to gulp and run, but if I don't  
get some sleep soon I'm gonna turn into a grizzly bear."

Nick rose, following to the elevator door as his partner began  
chattering again. "Myra'll probably have bacon and eggs on the  
table when I get there. Old habits die hard, I guess. Sun comes  
up, eggs sunny-side-up. That's my Myra." He pulled open the door,  
but stopped, hesitating briefly before he turned. "Oh and Kni--  
Nick... I meant what I said back at the precinct. You ever want  
to talk, I'll be there."

Nick's smile was restrained but sincere. "Okay. And Schank?  
Thanks."

There was an awkward moment before Schanke extended a hand.  
"Yeah. Well, g'night -- partner. See you tomorrow, same time,  
same station."

Nick took the offered hand, warm flesh meeting cold, and shook  
it. Then the door slid shut across Schanke's broad grin, and the  
elevator bore him away.

Nick took another sip of the wine and found himself mirroring  
the smile.

Maybe this partner business wouldn't be so bad after all.  


\+ End +


End file.
